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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812170">Amber in her skin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_brontide/pseuds/lady_brontide'>lady_brontide</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Savour [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din will be back, Din's back baby!, Dom/sub Undertones, Domesticity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hangover, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, No Beta, Protective Din Djarin, Protectiveness, Smut, Soft Din Djarin, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2, The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, come yell at me I can take it, picks up where he smells like petrichor ends, trigger warning for anxiety attack</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:53:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_brontide/pseuds/lady_brontide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You've struck a deal with the Mandalorian and agreed to stay on Nevarro while he follows a solid lead on finding the child's kind. You try to focus on helping the community and making friends. You construct a reputation on lies, and make a garden from a tomb.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Savour [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*Picks up directly after "He smells like petrichor"<br/>**I'm going to heavily lean on The Mandalorian season two for my time frame and plot points. I love the supporting characters in the latter half of season two, so I want to spend time with them. There is a real plot I am fiddling with for OC.<br/>***this is thirty-five hundred words of sad. Sad, sad, sad.<br/>****According to Wookiepedia I've been spelling OC's home planet name wrong: It is 'Pamarthe.' Thank you, Wookiepedia. <br/>*****I screwed up while creating the form so it says 1/1 chapter - this is meant to be 6-7 chapters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From space Nevarro is one of the ugliest planets you have seen. A little moonless bruise. </p><p>Dirtside its worse. You had stopped here with Mando to deliver quarries enough times to be familiar with the town, but you had always been glad to <em> leave </em> . Ash fills the sky with intermittent wind, and the moisture farm sites are dangerously out of code. Your lips were chapped within hours of stepping out of the <em> Razor Crest </em>. Karga had met you and Mando at the port, and shook your hand with gusto after petting the baby across his nose.</p><p>“We’re pleased to add a botanist to our office. Folks here are eager to be self-sufficient,” he’d said in earnest, gesturing for the three of you to walk with him into town. “We have a housing unit set aside for you. Very homey, and very secure. Though I suppose everything is homey after living in a ship full of criminals in carbonite plaques.” Mando touches your lower back with his fingertips for a fleeting moment before dropping his hand. </p><p>It’s down an alley and up a recessed staircase. Karga was right, it is homey, just like your apartment on Pamarthe: a kitchen, washroom, living space, and bedroom. The white-washed walls and beige furniture is bright and to your liking. The couch arm is soft under your palm.</p><p>“This is,” you turn in a circle to take it all in, “really nice. Too nice.” </p><p>Mando has a thumb tucked into his belt and a lean in his hip as he takes the space in, and Karga raises his hands in a shrug. “This a city-official's unit. Marshal Dune turned it down at the beginning of her appointment. It’s been unoccupied for a long time.”</p><p>“And the security system?” Din asks. Karga brings him to a grey box on the wall, and you retreat into the kitchen, then the bedroom to set your pack down. You turn around and catch the kid toddling into your room, with his ears drooping. He looks up at you, knowing written on his face. </p><p>“Come here, buddy,” you say and reach for him. He extends his arms and lets you scoop him to rest against your shoulder. He wraps three little fingers into your jacket collar. “It’s just for a little.” He whines low. Your throat tightens because you don’t know if it’s just a little while, but you can’t bear to make him a promise you cannot keep. </p><p>You carry him around the different rooms with you, and let him peek into cupboards and the tiny dresser in your room. He’s content to lean against your shoulder while you narrate things in the kitchen for him. Mando and Karga are still talking in hushed tones over the grey box you guess is a security system. </p><p>“Eight digits isn’t enough,” Din insists. </p><p>“I can set it for ten, but that’s the highest.”</p><p>“Fine,” he huffs. You turn away, feeling your body freeze from the care he’s putting into this situation. </p><p>“All right, young lady,” Karga calls. You set the baby down on the kitchen table so he can play with an overturned bowl. “I will see you tomorrow in the purser’s office. Nine-hundred sharp.”</p><p>“I’ll be there,” you reply. Karga steps out the door. Mando goes to follow, but he hesitates. </p><p>“I need to collect some data for my next lead. I’ll be back in an hour.” </p><p>“Copy that.” </p><p>You didn’t have a lot to unpack. Sleep clothes, some toiletries, a couple data pads, and a spare shirt. It’s a meagre spread. </p><p>You walk around in your undershirt and pants barefoot with the kid in your arms. He’s reluctant to be far, and he tries to be helpful while you cook dinner. The kitchen is stocked with real food, and you opt for a vegetable and pink meat that makes the baby’s eyes go wide in delight. He even unwraps one hand from your shirt in favor of reaching his lop-sided body toward the peppered meat. </p><p>“Hey, no,” you hold him tight as he reaches for the flank you’re forking into a pan. It sizzles in cooking oil and spices. You let him have a bit of fat to munch on, and that contents him so you can wash blue brown mushrooms to the sound of his gurgling. The room is full of oil and pepper and some red spice that made the baby sneeze. You lean into his fuzzy head and give the mushroom tops a lazy stir in the sizzling pan. It pops sending peppercorn flying under the dim kitchen fluorescents. It’s a little surreal, that this is all yours, and that the best parts of it will be flying away soon. “I wish you could stay a little longer. But your dad has to find your kind.” He lets out a puffy snort, and you kiss the top of his head before nuzzling your cheek onto it. </p><p>Mando comes back, the door slides open and he slips in, setting his rifle to lean against the door jam, and it’s stupid. Idiotic. Uncalled for, to think maybe he’ll abandon the quest and just stay here with you and the kid and have real domestic noises for a little. You can’t deny the green child his people though, so you beat that nagging animal into a sack and bury it neck deep in the woods. </p><p>“Did you get your new lead?” you ask. He stands out against your living space, a looking presence to the soft colors. He notices dirt from his soles on the floor, and you squirm with embarrassment for him as he makes a frustrated noise and stands still, forcing a fist to unclench.</p><p>“Yes,” he answers after a spell. Making up his mind, he leans over and tugs the boots off his feet and walks into the kitchen in his socks. Your eyes fall to the line of his toes as he keeps talking. “It’s two sectors over. Looks like it will be a chase.”   </p><p>You could say a dozen things: <em> be careful, come back safe, sounds like fun </em>, all iterations of ‘you too, sometimes.’ </p><p>“Want some food?” you ask instead. </p><p>He watches you. Din can’t remember the last time someone cooked him real food. Maybe his mother if he thinks back far, but in the last decade no one has. </p><p>“Maybe later,” he answers. “I planned on staying tonight.” He notices how your lips turn up, and takes a confident step until he can gather the child from your shoulder so you can finish. The kid watches you with ears focused on what you have in the pan. Din doesn’t know what’s in your kitchen, so he sits at the table and sets the kid around so he can watch while you divide the food. </p><p>“So,” you ask, and set a plate in front of the child. He leans forward, mesmerized. “What’s the job Karga has for me?” </p><p>“Farming. He already has ideas for a greenhouse.” He watches as you fork a bite of mushroom into your mouth. He’s seen you eat a hundred times, but he’s never seen you enjoy it, closing your eyes as the flavors wake up dormant nerves.</p><p>“Nothing will grow above ground here,” you say. “The air is too dirty.” He isn’t surprised.</p><p>“What do you suggest?”  </p><p>“Is there an abandoned building with a filtration system? Or tunnels dug in?” </p><p>He stills, and has to force himself to answer with his eyes closed tight. </p><p>“There are tunnels. An old sewer system. It’s-” <em> desecrated, sacked, defiled </em> “-abandoned.” </p><p>“Does it have an air filtering system? I could probably get some piping in for misters and set up planter boxes with UV lights. The fruit won’t be as flavourful, but they will be nutritious.” </p><p>Mando doesn’t have a name for whatever is clawing in his stomach. “It does.” </p><p>“I can work with that,” you answer and flash him a bright smile.</p>
<hr/><p>He knows deep in his bones that leaving her here was the best choice for the time being. He isn’t a selfish man: he is a pragmatic one. The chase to find a Jedi looms before him, and he’s not willing to drag her into more unpredictable situations than necessary. It was fine when he was just storing up - hunting is a complicated profession, and trouble follows even when you’re the most well-paid provider in the parsec - those things he could predict and protect from. But not this time, not with so much uncharted territory before him.</p><p>The child finally slept, and the moment you set him snoring in his pram, Din hiked you up with his broad hands under your thighs and took you to your new bed. He started with his fingers fisted into the blankets to keep from squeezing you too hard, even as every instinct in his haggard brain tells him to leave no doubt that he would keep his word. </p><p>He leaves proof in the blooming bites down your sternum. He leaves proof in the silent promises he kisses into your cheeks as he instructs you to open your thighs wider for him. And you leave equal proof, murmuring his name into his shoulder when he sets your exhausted body astride his own and encourages you to take him  one more time. </p><p>Before dawn he dresses and stands in the kitchen, carefully spooning the leftover food into his mouth, because she made it.</p>
<hr/><p>He leaves as soon as the sun rises. You hug the baby tight at the foot of the ship. “Make sure he eats,” you say. </p><p>“I always feed him,” Mando accuses, arms crossed. </p><p>You and the baby look at him, matched stares. “I was talking to the kid.” He squints his moon-sized, dark matter eyes as the harsh wind makes his ear flap. </p><p>Finally, Mando tugs you in by the shoulder and let’s his visor dip so he can look you in the eye. </p><p>“Don’t ditch me here, Din Djarin,” you say between your bodies. </p><p>“I won’t.” He squeezes your shoulder, and murmurs your name in your ear, matching his promise. "You have my word."  </p><p>The Razor Crest is two pin spots of orange, then it’s gone. The only evidence it was there are the landing gear imprints along the sandy ground, and you with your jacket collar held tight against your throat.</p>
<hr/><p>You have an hour before your meeting with Karga, and you spend it hunched over your kitchen table, glaring at the dirty pan puckering with solidified grease. </p><p>You rub the sleep out of your eyes as the sun peeks further over the horizon, you can see the orange glow through the window above your kitchen sink. Your caf sits to your left, handle turned out, and in front of you a pad of real, honest to Maker paper you found while exploring the cupboards for a mug that morning. You’ve written one word: <em> goal </em>. Then tacked on a question mark. </p><p>Your brain is moving slow, and you try to wade through the sleepy thoughts swirling around what your goals are. To distract yourself until the Mandalorian came back. To work hard and do your best to make Karga’s generous offer to house you worth it to him. To make friends. </p><p>If you write these things down they’ll be real, and maybe it's a little too soon to be doing this. You lean forward and rest your chin on your flattened hands and sigh. You’ll try again tomorrow.</p>
<hr/><p>At o-nine-hundred you make it into the purser’s office, and the first order of business is Karga  figuring out if there is a puck on you. </p><p>“There was,” he says, looking up from his terminal. Cara leans against the wall behind him, arms crossed. “I’m issuing a cancelation.” </p><p>“Can you do that?” Dune asks. </p><p>“I can say she turned herself in. That will kill the credit expenditure and mark the bounty as complete.”</p><p>“Do you know who placed it?” you ask. </p><p>“A union boss from a city four sectors over. His grievance is,” Karga trails off, and you watch as his eyes widen and he leans back in his chair with his hands folded. “He claims you murdered twelve mechanics, which resulted in a rival syndicate taking over a smuggling ring. They claim you owe two life sentences.” Cara whistles low.  </p><p>You internally smack yourself upside the head for thinking <em> whoops </em>. You have a choice. If you disclose to Karga the true nature of the puck he might have to abide by his oath and clear the puck on the grounds that you didn’t do those things, and reattribute it. On the other hand, you can claim the kills as yours and save Mando some trouble. And if you do eventually travel with him again...it might not be such a bad idea to build a reputation. </p><p>“His grievance is accurate.”</p><p>“I know you’re lying,” Greef deadpans. </p><p>“And I formally turn myself in to the guild.” </p><p>“This is clearly Mando’s doing,” Cara says. </p><p>“Aren’t there enough hunters on Mando’s tail? For the armor alone? What happens if you say I turned myself in? Will they come try to collect me?” You’re trying to control your rising pitch.</p><p>Karga pulls his shoulders to his ears, and swivels to look at Dune. She shrugs. “No, they won’t. I can say you are working off your sentences here, same as blue-gills over there.”</p><p>“Hey!” Mythrol protests. </p><p>“Quiet. It isn’t guild etiquette, but there isn’t a rule against it.” He taps a few buttons and your face appears in a holo with the words ‘canceled’ underneath. It cuts out. “Welcome to your prison.”</p>
<hr/><p>Days later you’re sitting at your kitchen table before the sun has come up, relishing the quiet. There aren’t any birds to listen to. No early day sounds; work here only starts when the sun is past the horizon giving away all the hiding places of the monsters that beat their heavy wings and scrape their claws on your roof at night. You kind of wish you were underground. If something knocked on the roof of the <em> Crest </em> like that dirtside you would have lost your mind. Your caf is rich but ashy, and numbs your nasal passages. </p><p>You try to make a list of the things you’re happy about. Getting to grow things. Getting to smell your food - Maker, you missed that more than you realized - having colleagues to talk to, a real bed. You push your hair away from your face and stare into the mug, hoping for the universe to provide some answers. </p><p>“What am I doing so far from home?” The caf vibrates when your breath hits it. You huff but it surrenders nothing. </p><p>“I slept on the pillow he used last night,” you tell the coffee. “It only smells like him a little bit now. But maybe Din will come back soon and sleep on it again.” </p><p>Your caf stares back at you, as if to say <em> it’s only been a week, it’s too soon to hope </em>. “He might,” you whisper, and your breath ghosts over the surface. “It doesn’t rain here. Sometimes steam from a geyser vent sweeps over the surface but it’s not the same. And it’s gone so fast because it’s the cleanest water.” The beverage isn’t giving any answers so you huff and take a big gulp letting it scald your tongue. You swallow away the astringent tang. </p><p>You pick up your ink pen, an antique, and write three things in basic: keep working, build a garden, make a friend. Laying the single piece of paper in the middle of your kitchen table, you pull on your shoes, and walk to the purser's office with the sun against your back.</p>
<hr/><p>Dune and Mythrol take you down to the sewer system with industrial lights and a generator. The air is stale but it’s cleaner than ground level oxygen, so you feel comfortable shoving in your pocket the dust mask Mythrol had waved at you before you descended underground. Your feet echo against the faint layer of dirt on the cement floor, and you look around with eager eyes. </p><p>“What do you think, nanny?” Dune asks and her voice bounces down the walls. She’s standing at a junction, listening. Just in case. </p><p>“I can work with this,” you say, and you can’t help the mixture of apprehension and enthusiasm leaking into your voice. “If we can pipe along here,” you gesture to the wall and ceiling joint, “and designate a clean area, I could have this place planting ready in a month.” That hits you like a wall. A month. </p><p>“Make that two, freight runners take their time getting out here,” Dune replies, tucking her chin. She meets you to stare down a dark tunnel that faintly buzzes from an overworked wire. </p><p>“Could we clean up the wiring in the meantime?” </p><p>“I can’t help you there,” Cara admits. </p><p>“If I may,” Mythrol calls behind you. He steps into your semi-circle to look down the tunnel as well. “I took the liberty of contacting one of the moisture farmers, to help install the watering system. He’s a certified electrician too. He could assist you.” </p><p>“Oh, great,” you say. </p><p>Kel Trahill is handsome you suppose. You shake his hand and show him where you want to put the piping. He nods, makes some notes on his data pads, and makes easy eye contact with you. He has patchy scruff around his jawline. </p><p>“This clean area, where do you want it? The dimensions will help me figure out the pipe lengths and the water tank size.” His voice is smooth, like someone who has laughed a lot in their life. </p><p>“Right here, I think,” you say and spin in a half circle with your arms wide. It’s a good spot, with just a hint of air flow from the lower tunnels so there will be natural ventilation. “I need to ask, could we hook up a moisture recycler to the tank? I know it will be bulky, but I thought a loop system would be efficient.”  </p><p>He smacks his hand against his sternum. “A woman after my own heart.”</p>
<hr/><p>“I don’t believe you!” you tell Cara and slam your empty shooter upside down. It’s your third and you’re feeling tingly. Kel has his top buttons undone and raises his eyebrows at your exclamation. He joined you and Cara for a celebratory drink, in anticipation of your garden plans. “An entire covert lived down there?” </p><p>“Lived and died,” she replies. There is a sad end in her sentence, and she raises her glass in a toast, and the two of you join her in a solemn clink to the Mandalorians. You’re going to build one hell of a shrine to them. </p><p>And when you wander into your unit that night with a fuzzy head, you take up the ink pen and draw a check mark next to each item on your list.</p>
<hr/><p>You and Kel discover the UV lamps won’t work. You had drilled some holes in an old durasteel bucket and planted seedlings to test the soil chemistry and ventilation in the tunnels without any alterations. The poor things don't grow an inch in two weeks, so you push your hair out of your face and rethink the lighting problem. </p><p>“What if we use the skylights instead?” Kel asks. </p><p>“I don’t think they’re direct enough,” you admit quietly, standing beneath one. The coloring is weak, the light reflected off house walls and down into the domed space. “But-” an idea swirls around in your brain, and you spin on your heel to face Kel “-if we mix the planting soil with volcanic soil it might have enough oomph to coax the plants to grow. I’ll have to dig for it.” </p><p>“We have a couple unused drill sites at the farm,” he offers, eyebrows raising. He’s not a gardener, but he’s creative and catches on quickly. </p><p>“I need soil, not that course stuff,” you clarify. “Is there a magma flow nearby? Not the river, I mean an active volcano site.” </p><p>“There is one outside the green zone.” </p><p>“Can we go there and collect?” </p><p>“It’s your project,” Kel says. “You give the orders, lady gardener.”  </p><p>The next morning at first light, Mythrol and Kel accompany you out to the edge of the green zone. It’s a wasteland, flat and arid, and all three of you don oxygen tanks halfway there because the air thickens with fumes, and the sky fades orange with ash. </p><p>For two hours you drill a foot wide spot in the ground. Sweat has gathered on your brow and falls into your eyes. The green zone demarcation is obvious - there’s solid ground, and then there is magma throwing warmth and making the air scramble with heat lines. You lay flat and reach an arm down into the hole with mild hope. There’s no guarantee there’s dirt here, it was your own blind faith in volcanoes that led you to this spot. Kel kneels across the pit you’ve dug together breathing hard through his dust mask. The two of you have sweat through your shirts under the beating sun. He leans forward, eyeing the site. </p><p>“Hey nanny,” Kel says over the murmur of a gusty wind. “Get this dirt then let's go for a drink, yeah?”</p><p>“We’ll be back in time for drinks with the marshal,” you squint at him and lean further into the dig site until your shoulder disappears and you’re near suspended. </p><p>“Let’s go without her. She drinks all the spotchka,” he says. “Need a brace?” </p><p>“No, I’m all right,” you answer even though your head is falling into the hole. You slide your gloved hand along the inside of the cavern searching for a soft spot, some give, or at least for the bottom. You know you’re almost there. “Order Corellian whiskey, she hates that stuff.”</p><p>He sighs with some drama and you tilt your head up to peer at him. “Indulge me?” </p><p>You duck your head back in so your shoulder can fully extend. “All right, fine.” Your voice echoes in the little cavern. </p><p>You curl your hand around a faint, warm softness. It’s so familiar you close your eyes for a moment and enjoy the touch, the squish of soil. You feel a smile stretch across your face and you forget there’s an active volcano two hundred yards west of you as you get lost digging your fingers in. With some effort you draw yourself back and out of the site to lean up on your elbow to present the handful of black, damp soil. Kel smiles under the mask with his eyes fixed on your hand, and you’re not sure anyone’s been so happy to see dirt as the two of you. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw: alcohol, and anxiety attack<br/>anxiety attack happens here: "Cara Dune has the bedside manner of a Tusken..."<br/>Pls let me know if anything else needs to be tagged.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Miss, pardon me.”</p><p>You jumped in shock at the gravelly voice and subsequent shoulder tap, and sent the fruit in your arm flying with soft thuds around the grocer’s floor. </p><p>You glanced over your shoulder at the owner of that voice while kneeling for the food. “Sorry, I’ll move out of the way.” Thinking that’s over, you turn and reach under the shelf one has lodged itself under. </p><p>“I’m not interested in the food,” he continues. You look up from the floor with your shoulder bending from under the steel shelf. He’s wearing a black traveling cloak and broad brim hat. He looks like any vagrant that passes through Nevarro; you’ve grown used to them by now. “I’m looking for someone. A girl.” He sounds in need of water. </p><p>“A specific one?” you say, with a little too much sarcasm. One fruit caught, you scoot on your knees for the next one. “Or just anyone?” You try to muster a nonchalant tone. Dune and Karga had done what they could to make Nevarro a respectable locale again; but there was only so much Cara could do about the back alley brothel you knew was operating out of a dug in home a dozen doors down from yours. You push off your knees with a little click. </p><p>“Someone I have business with. She runs with hunters?” Under the hat, he was human, with a nose that had been broken in a few places. </p><p>Your heart speeds up. “Hunters and their crews don’t come around here anymore.” </p><p>He shuffles his feet impatiently. There’s an unmistakable click and you know he is hiding something beneath the cloak. Behind him, you see the proprietor reach beneath his apron. </p><p>“I’m told the guild still operates here,” he tries again. </p><p>“It doesn’t anymore. Excuse me.” You walk by him, careful not to touch him, and lay your wares on the counter. Your hands shake a little as you hand the shopkeeper your credits. </p><p>You stood as still as you could as your arms and legs began to tingle with the unfamiliar sensation of adrenaline. You could feel the man’s eyes boring into you, and resist the urge to lay your hand on your hip holster. You take slow steadying breaths: he’s just asking a question, he’s a drifter, you’re safe, this store is safe. The part of your brain still thinking beyond panicking knew it wasn’t a good idea to provoke without a valid reason. He stood in your peripheral for a moment longer, then swept out of the store with clicking boots. You lean into the counter and look behind you to make sure he’s left. </p><p>“All right?” the proprietor says. His usual smile is masked behind his greying beard, mouth drawn in a line. </p><p>“All right,” you answer. “Have you seen him before?” </p><p>“I think he just got in. Didn’t buy anything though,” he huffs while laying his hands wide on the counter. You gather your fruit and thank him with a small smile and head into the street. </p><p>Kel had sent you for lunch while he finished a software calibration on the recyclers. As much as you didn’t appreciate running errands, you knew it was good for you. Practicing leaving the safety of the sewers to venture in the steadily busy streets kept you sharp and staved away crowd-anxiety. Besides, the independence was refreshing. After a year with the Mandalorian leading the way or walking on your heels for supply runs, you found it nice to walk under the sky of your own volition. Today it was peeking blue under a winter sun. The street is busy with citizens taking time with one another; pleasant laughter falls out of the cantina-turned-schoolhouse, and a glassy break rings from the new cantina nestled closer to the purser’s office. </p><p>You reach the round marketplace and spot the entrance to the sewers. You take one deep breath and descent into your own little underworld.</p><hr/><p>“Are you ready?” you call down to Kel from your end of the clean room. Your voice reverberates off the white sheet end-caps. You hear him curse and mumble under his breath from below a planting box. </p><p>“Okay, go ahead.” </p><p>Punching in the startup sequence on the generator you squat and watch the series of machines thrum with power. First the water cycler, then the air filters, then one by one the UV lights glow and their faint blue-white light fills the room. </p><p>Kel comes and stands over your shoulder. “How’s the power output?”</p><p>“It’s still warming up, hold on,” you say and elbow him in the knee. </p><p>Together you rock on your toes waiting for the power-output reader to collect data. Behind you, the clean room is ready for plants: a dozen high volume boxes filled with a fragrant concoction of volcanic soil and expensive fertilizer waited, full of expectations and hope. It took three months, but everything was ready at last. It’s a habitable environment and the seedlings you have been raising in your kitchen will do well. Your kitchen might be habitable after today too. It’s an experimental mess full of pH testing equipment, a microscope, hundreds of petri-dishes full of cultures and fast-growing cells - you hadn’t been cooking to try and keep the area as clean as possible. Damn you wanted a hot meal. And you’re ready to see the plants take to the soil and take something new. The power output meter starts to move and you inhale sharply. </p><p>You and Kel whip your head to the skylights like a pair of Kowakian monkey-lizards when they rattle. Forgetting the reader your thighs tense, ready to bolt. They rattle again, this time losing dust. </p><p>“Earthquake?” you ask looking into Kel’s patient, blue eyes. </p><p>Kel shakes his head. “It’s probably an old mine. They’re all over the south canyon.”</p><p>You both refocus on the meter. So much rides on the generators being able to pump out enough power. You want it to work. You’d scrubbed so much mud from out of your nails in anticipation of this moment. </p><p>Ninety-eight percent output. A shout of joy leaves your body and Kel stands so quick he knocks you on your side. </p><p>“Watch it,” you grouse. He’s too excited to be apologetic and reaches for your arm to help you up. </p><p>“Sorry, sorry.” He looks like he’s ready to jump out of his skin, and you know you are too. The room is bathed in light blues, and is heady. It’s such a good replication of a real greenhouse built into a fertile land you could cry. The humming recyclers are already filtering the air, and when the misters burst on to shroud the room in droplets you know everything is going to work out here. </p><p>“Let’s leave it running overnight and check in tomorrow. It’s going to get muggy,” you say while puffing your shirt front. You’d managed to get a heater in here to try and raise the temperature two degrees, and it felt like it was earning its expense already. </p><p>“Let me buy you a drink to celebrate,” Kel says with a wide smile. He tosses your jacket to you, and you rush out of the clean area, barely remembering to set the lock behind you. Once engaged, the two of you leave the dark underground for the dirty, top-side air.</p><hr/><p>The new cantina always smells like citrus; the new proprietor was determined to keep it nice, and the tartness hit your nose in the street tickling it. Inside, folks mingle after a long days work, and you make for your regular chair at your regular table. </p><p>Kel’s got other plans. Before your ass hits the chair, he loops your elbow and drags you to the bar where another man waits, looking as surprised as you to be face to face with a stranger. </p><p>“This is my brother,” Kel rushes introductions. “Explain how you’re going to clone the plant cultures? He doesn’t believe it’s possible.” </p><p>The brother says something sarcastic and you sigh. You’re a little too tired today to talk about gene manipulation, but he’s so excited you indulge him, and explain to the brother how you’re going to foster a crop of vegetables from a single cell group. Kel orders a pitcher of Kashyyyk homebrew for the three of you and gives a cheery toast. Half the patrons join in his woop, though you know for a fact they didn’t hear what the toast was about. </p><p>You’ve spent a lot of time with Kel Trahill, and gleaned a lot of information from his talkative mouth. No one his age has ever grown their own food; if their parents did the knowledge has long been lost to the Empire. In exchange for an illegal mining charter, they’d promised regular ration deliveries that became more, and more expensive. Soon, everyone was scrambling to make enough credits for rations. Being able to grow your own food is something you’ve done your own life - your heart glows in excitement for these people. </p><p>Knots form in your chest listening to Kel and his brother talk. Kel is animated and sloshes his drink while talking with his hands about everything - how efficient the plumping system he designed is, the good smell of the soil, how much the kids will love the garden, how much <em> his </em>kids will love the garden.</p><p>“When I have them,” he says, shooting a glance at you. His cheeks look a tad red, and you focus on your drink instead of him for a few moments. When he goes back to rambling, you smile and lean your chin in your hand. It feels like an afternoon with Anijae back home.</p><p>“Hey!” Cara and Mythrol saunter in looking worse for wear, and plop down at your regular shared table. They look grumpy, and you’re finally in the spirit. You break out of Kel’s elbow hooked around yours and push through the patrons to get to your colleagues. “Where have you been? We’re celebrating!”</p><p>She opens her mouth to answer, and is interrupted by Mythrol slurping his green drink much too fast. It dribbles out the cup onto the table and he slams the empty cup down. Your brows furrow. </p><p>“Um-”</p><p>“We did some clean up in the desert,” Cara answers. She gives Mythrol a disapproving glare as he signals to the waiter for another beverage. “What’s the celebration?”</p><p>“The clean room is all finished. In a couple days we can start planting,” you tell her. “Have a ‘the greenhouse is done’ round on Kel. And don’t tell him I said that.” </p><p>“How long will it take the crops to grow?” Cara asks. </p><p>You tap your chin, calculating the age of the cultures you have. “I have one batch that’s ready to go, and another that needs to propagate still. So I think we'll see buds in one month.” </p><p>Cara sighs and leans back. Her look is wistful, like she’s remembering. You wonder if she often thinks of Alderaan the way you think of Pamarthe; thick leaf forests flanked by vast blue lakes. You nudge her with your foot, and smile.</p><hr/><p>It’s late by the time the marshal sees you to the door of your apartment. The white-washed walls and soft beige furniture beckon you to sleep, but you can’t. Not until you bid the plants in your hasty, non-union-regulation chemistry lab goodnight. Your kitchen is a disaster zone, filled with data pads and pH testing kits and different soil mixes. Green shoots looking pleased with themselves look up to you. You’re feeling goofy, so you reach for one and shake a leaf in greeting. </p><p>Your eyelids are heavy, but you still spot the black lump on your bed while peeling your jacket off. </p><p>Still in your dusty clothes that now smell of sweat and whatever acidic booze Kel spilled on your pant leg, you sit cross-legged on the bed and examine the lump. To you it looks like the tiniest black hole. You snicker. </p><p>You flick at it until it lays serpentine. Then you hold it from the middle and wiggle it, trying to remember where you’ve seen it before, because it is familiar. You pull it taut with your fists - your fine motor skills are on a leave of absence - and try looking around the room through it. </p><p>A memory blooms behind your eyes of this piece of frayed cloth. Folding it lengthwise, you hold it to your eyes and can’t see anything. As soon as it touches your face you know what it is, and you can smell him on it; the heady mixture of gun oil and soap and ozone. </p><p>“Din?”</p><p>Silence fills the space around you. Except the whirring of your freezer box and your breathing, there is nothing. </p><p>But...this was his to keep. This was your one shared artifact. He must have been in here. Today. He had left it - <em> or maybe he had dropped it - Mando doesn't drop things </em> . <em> So he left it. Maybe it was getting in the way. Maybe he needed the space for something else. Or maybe he didn’t need it anymore. Besides if he found the kid’s kind, he doesn’t need you anymore. </em>The thought flows unbidden and loose in your dizzy brain, not grounded in anything, and barely registering. </p><p><em> He needs me, </em>the last wakeful part calls out. </p><p>A nasty, recessed part snarls out, <em> but for what? Your cunt?  </em></p><p>Slowly, you fall to your side on the bed and curl around that little black blindfold. Inhaling deeply, you let your eyes fall closed and try to breathe through the ache in your chest.</p><hr/><p>You woke up from insistent, disembodied knocks from everywhere. You blink your eyes open and carefully orient yourself to the point where your ears decide the knocks aren’t from everywhere; they’re from your front door. Clothes from last night stick to your body, and your skin crawls from it. </p><p>You haul yourself up and manage to walk in a straight line to the front door, and tapping the lock open you are nearly knocked over by the fresh air rushing inside your unit. </p><p>“Good morning, sunshine.” The Marshal’s tongue drips sarcasm, and you shake your head grumbling in retreat to your couch. She steps over the threshold and looks around your apartment. “I didn’t think your body could handle that much liquor,” she says, raising her eyebrows at you. </p><p>“It can't. No tolerance,” you mumble from your fetal position on the couch. Discovering the room spins more with your eyes closed, you follow Cara around the room with them instead. She’s standing in your make-ship chemistry lab peeking into the microscope and looking through the petri dishes you had meticulously laid out two nights earlier. </p><p>“Karga says to take the day off.” She comes and sits on the stone table in the middle of your living space, and leans down so she’s eye level with you. “He went and looked at the clean room today; he’s impressed. Kel called in as well.”</p><p>You snort. Of course he did. Briefly you remember his arm sliding from your elbow to land in the middle of your back., and you grimace. </p><p>“What do you have there?” Cara juts her chin at your hand, and when you lift it you find the blindfold cloth is still caught in your fist. You unwrap your fingers and present it to her. The worn fabric hands from your fingers, rubbed soft from use.  </p><p>“It’s a blindfold,” you murmur. “I don’t know how it got here though.”</p><p>“Mando probably left it. He helped us blow an Imp base in the desert yesterday.”</p><p>It hits you like a bucket of ice water. You feel the blood drain from your face and swallow hard over a dry tongue. </p><p>“He was here?” Your voice is small, you can’t help the longing in it. “He didn’t come to see me.”</p><p>Dune shrugs, standing. “Don’t take it personally. He’s a busy man.” All the muscles along your skull tense up. You don’t register her parting words and stare blank into the door when it slides closed. </p><p>Mando had never been too busy for you. </p><p>He’d seen Cara, Karga, and Mythrol but not you. He’d gone out into the desert on a death mission instead of seeking you out. He left the blindfold. </p><p>You try to sit up. You shouldn’t dwell on this while you’re hungover, you can’t. Scrubbing your hands over your face and sitting deeper into the couch, you push your hair out of your face and sit like that for a while, encased in your forearms and sticky skin. You need to shower. Get the stench of yeast and tang out of your shirt. Damn Kel and his hand-talking. </p><p>Mando doesn’t do anything he hasn’t thought through. </p><p>So why did he leave it?</p><hr/><p>Before you go to sleep, you lean against the headboard and look up the names of your parents in the extensive Resistance database. Their faces take shape in the holo - they look older than you remember them being; crows feet crinkle around their eyes, and your mother’s grim mouth contrasts the smile of your father’s. The readout below their names confirms your suspicions: alive, residing on Coruscant, diplomatic escort, near-retirement. They would die there. They would never see your old home again. Father would die on a planet covered in exhaust fumes. You close the holo, and slide until your chin rests on your chest, knees canted. </p><p><em> Why did he leave it? </em>  </p><p>The question plagues you by rearing its head every time you’re left alone to your own tasks. It lingers behind your eyes when you try to sleep, and invades your fantasies when you try and conjure memories of his hands carving out the shape of your back and shoulders. Everything is a little greyer. Blander. Good memories turn to dust in your mouth. </p><p>Why would he promise not to desert you here and leave behind the only object you share joint custody of?</p><p>It doesn’t make sense. To you. You’re sure it makes sense to him, wherever he is hurtling through hyperspace, you know his decision stands in his mind. The mean-spirited, snarling part of your brain doesn’t murmur anymore, it yells. Clangs pots and pans together for you to <em> wake up! Get it through your thick skull! You thought it would last? That someone who you loved would stay? </em></p><p>You turn over in your bed and find the pillow he had slept on and pull it closer to your nose. It’s all but faded, but if you squish your nose in and breathe the dust of it in, you can catch the faintest sting of metal and gun oil. </p><p>It’s pathetic. </p><p>You’ve never been this bent out of shape about a man before. They come and go, contracts end, Anijae’s exploits confirmed that for you. One week she’d fling herself on your couch and tell you all about her clandestine affair with the new facility manager and his filthy mouth. The next week she’d sit on your counter while you cooked and tell you all about how a new greenskeeper had been so sweet letting her tie him up. People ebb and flow.</p><p>But Mando needed you to look after the kid, the Razor Crest. Unless the kid was gone. And he never needed a mechanic. </p><p>You’re ready to rage from the churning in your stomach to the hot tips of your ears. He’d left you his name, promised a home, and warm body to lie next to. </p><p><em> She’s a fool. She isn't coming back. Haven’t you heard the stories? </em> </p><p>You have to get off this planet. Maker, fuck, you want to go home.</p><hr/><p>Marshal Dune has the bedside manner of a Tusken Raider. The next time you sit with her in the cantina, you’re both waiting on Kel to bring back glasses and tangy spotchka. You’re caught up in thought and staring at a spot on the table you don’t notice her leaning her elbows conspiratorially on the table. </p><p>“So,” you jerk out of your thoughts and look up into her twinkling eyes, “be honest: what was he like once the helmet was off?” <em> Was? </em></p><p>The question swings on a pendulum between you. By the time Kel returns you’re breathing so shallowly he nudges you with his elbow. </p><p>“What’s wrong with you?” </p><p>You can’t breathe. </p><p>You stand up quickly and jostle the table so hard a glass rolls over and shatters on the floor. One of them calls your name as you stride into the night and pull your collar around your neck to block dust the wind picks up. Every breath gets shriller until you feel your throat closing and heat flooding your whole body. The vision of your recessed stairwell becomes glassy as tears prick your eyes. </p><p>It takes three tries to get the key-code box to turn neon green. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you sink to the floor inside your bedroom door and focus on a picture in front of your eyelids: the dark hull, green vines, thick bushes full of ripe yellow fruit, a warm transparisteel greenhouse under a hot star, the streaking view of hyperspace. </p><p>Hot water down your back helps. It takes until past midnight to get to sleep. </p><p>You start to wonder if the carefully polite friendship’s you’ve curated with Cara and Greef are a benefit of the Mandalorian’s reputation. You know this apartment is. You know your job here is. Maybe they just talk to you to gossip. Why wouldn’t their conversation and tolerance of you be curated as well? It was a huge favor on the part of the magistrate. You try to convince yourself that Mando does need you, he wouldn't have told you his name if he didn't somehow need you. </p><p>It doesn't make Cara's words sting any less.<em> What was he like once the helmet was off? </em></p><p>
  <em> Will I even get to say goodbye to the baby before he is gone? </em>
</p><hr/><p>“Do you remember a man who was in here a week or so ago? He had a black cloak, and a broad brim hat?” </p><p>The grocer takes the Mon Calamari pieces you hand over and scratches his chin beneath his beard. </p><p>“He was in here two days ago. His ship is the green-striped starfighter parked far out.” He gestures to the dockyards while passing change into your outstretched palm. “Do you know him, girly?” </p><p>You don’t bother correcting his nickname for you. “No, just curious.”</p><p>“Should I tell him you’re asking for him?”</p><p>“No,” your heart races. You look at your palm and the little Corellian piece in your hand. Carefully you overturn it and slide it back toward the grocer. “Forget I asked?” </p><p>He places his palm over the credits and nods. </p><hr/><p>You look at the blindfold nestled on your bedside table every morning. It’s soft and frayed on the edges; it probably came from the end of one of Din’s tunics. Thinking like that produces a bittersweet smile and ache in your chest. It had always lived close to his body - that’s where he kept his essential items.  </p><p>Everything becomes heavier the angrier you get. Your limbs, the near constant throb at your temples, the watery air in the clean room and in the dusty streets of Nevarro. </p><p>But you know something is really wrong with you when you wrap your hand over your blaster grip and start tugging it out of your holster when the lock on your door decides four times is too many to get the code wrong. You see it in how your kitchen is a messy horticulture lab with a fine layer of dirt and old latex gloves lying around. You hear it in the clink of credits you hand over to the leathersmith - you needed a belt since your canvas trousers had started sagging on your hips. You’d thought about using the blindfold strip to catch two of the belt-loops together, then thought better of it. It should stay on your bedside table - far away from anyone’s eyes. Din had left it in private, and that’s where the evidence of his affection would remain. Tucked away. A secret. A dirty, cumbersome secret hidden away on a magma crusted planet.  </p><p>Sitting on a stool in the clean room and staring at the pH readouts of the soil samples is when Kel notices something is wrong. You’re kind of amazed it took this long. You feel his hand tentatively rest on your shoulder, and you sigh. </p><p>“You’re sad,” he says without preamble. His voice is smooth, soothing. It calms some of the raging in your stomach, but not enough to dissuade it. </p><p>“I need to show you something.”</p><p>You take Kel to your apartment, and he looks somewhere between uncomfortable and excited to be admitted to your home. Until you gesture to the kitchen covered in plastic sheeting and petri-dishes. </p><p>“All of this is how I propagated the new plants,” you tell him as he walks from counter to counter. “Botanical cloning is straightforward. I can show you how to do it. But we have to get everything into the clean room.” </p><p>He peeks into the microscope as you slide a dish with chlorophyll cells undergoing rapid mitosis under the lens. </p><p>“In two days these will be ready-”</p><p>“Wait, stop.” Kel stands abruptly and pushes his hair off his forehead. His top buttons are undone, and you watch his chest rising while he decides between crossing his arms, or planting his hands on his hips. He ends up crossing and giving you a pinched look. “You’re planning on leaving, aren’t you?”</p><p>“The job’s done,” you say, with a shrug. “You have everything you need. You don’t need me anymore, and I’ve written instructions…” you trail off, because now he looks sad. “Look, this was a temporary job anyway. I thought I’d be back with my old employer, but I don’t think they’re going to make it back. I haven’t decided what I’m doing, but I don’t think I can stay here. Not forever.”</p><p>He looks skeptical. </p><p>“Someone broke a promise to me,” you finally give up, as much as it pains you. “They were going to come for me, but I don’t believe they are anymore. And I think I should just go home.”</p><p>Kel drops his eyes and stares at your boots. You squirm a little and listen to the whirring of the air recycler, and clink of your neighbors wind chimes a little ways over the rooftop. </p><p>“Where’s home?”</p><p>You thought it was a green child with onyx eyes. Snores rumbling down your back. The blast of fresh air, and a depressurizing hull lowering onto a moss-covered moon. But all you can imagine is the view out of your old apartment, and the sweet aroma of honey from the pollinator’s hives.</p><p>“Can you at least wait another month?”</p><p>The question breaks your reverie. You meet his eyes, they look sorrowful, and you remember the hopeful glance when he’d talked about his future children. You weren’t that girl. You could never stay on a dusty farm in the middle of nowhere. </p><p>“I’m a fast learner,” his tone hints at playfulness. “But genetics is out of my scope.”</p><p>Deep breath in. Deep breath out. </p><p>“One month.”</p><hr/><p>Another week goes by in the greenhouses. </p><p>Four months since you’ve seen Din. </p><p>Four months since you’ve held the baby’s slight weight on your hip and snuggled into his soft head. </p><p>One month since you found the blindfold. </p><p>Kel helps you move everything from your kitchen into the clean room, reserving the corner parallel to the generators and water purifiers to hang up more clear plastic sheeting to create a bubble within a bubble, and the whole area takes on a tinge of antiseptic. You repay him by coughing up the credits for lunches all week from the fruit vendors. It’s an easy interlude, and you forget some of your anger at the Mandalorian, at least enough the dull thud in your head subsides for a few hours a day. And Kel’s presence helps dispense some of your crowd-anxiety; when you hook your hand into his elbow and let him push through the eager residents to his favorite lunch vendor you can forget for a few moments that you have it at all. </p><p>“How the fuck is that thing aerodynamically sound?” you ask Kel through a mouthful of fruit. You catch some of its runoff off your chin. The ship looks more like a long-chinned face than a starship. </p><p>“Nanny, come on, manners,” he says, poking your arm with his elbow. He drops a few more melons into your recycled crate to bring underground later. “It’s pre-empire. They built shit for aesthetics, not gunfights.”</p><p>“Hmph,” you mumble. </p><p>The roar of dual-hyperdrives settles and you go back to holding the crate for your co-conspirator. It’s a dull task you can tune out from. </p><p>You notice when the first hush falls over the street, a woman to your left leans to her neighbor with wide eyes. Her hand blocks her lips so you can’t figure out what she’s saying. Someone else and their companion brush against your back so you’re pushed against the vendor stall with your crate. You turn to your right and see the same thing, bowed eyes and circles forming; you curse your height and lift on your toes to see around taller shoulders and hunched heads. </p><p>When you turn back to Kel, his blue eyes are far behind you wide with curiosity. </p><p>“What’s back there? I can’t see.” He flicks his eyes to you before glancing behind you again. </p><p>“A hunter,” he answers low. </p><p>You clutch the crate so the edges bite into the flesh of your fingers, and part of you forgets about the crowding at your back. You look up into Kel’s face. </p><p>“What kind of hunter?” you ask breathless. </p><p>“I’ve never seen his kind before. He has a spear. Looks like he’s headed to the purser’s office.”</p><p>The purser’s office. He’s going to the fucking purser’s office.</p><p>You drop the crate and let it crack on the cement and drag Kel by the collar to be eye-level with you as your blood begins to pound. </p><p>Your voice is slow and dangerous. “What color is his armor?”</p><p>Kel tugs your wrist but you’re unrelenting. “What’s gotten into you? It’s silver!”</p><p>You let go of Kel and shove your way through the bunches of people. until you make it to the clear middle of the street. Between folks crossing the street in his wake you catch the steel-clad figure turning right at a cross-street - toward the purser’s office. </p><p>Your feet pound into the dusty street as you round the corner, breathing heavily as sweat forms on your crown. </p><p>He comes into view, his backside anyway, walking with purpose down to the purser’s office with a silver spear strapped to his back where the rifle should be. He has a determined look about him that shakes you to your core; it’s the same stride as when he came back from a hunt, antsy and exhausted and wanting nothing more than to strip your clothes off. Something white and hot flares in your chest. He'd left you alone here to be kept safe. He’d left the blindfold. He’d come to the planet and hadn’t sought you out, he’d just wandered into the desert to help Dune and Karga on some death wish chore when he could have seen you. Is that what he’d rather do? Did he really not need you? He’s almost to the office door so you do the only think you can think of through your red, bubbling rage. </p><p>You pick up a rock, and hurl it. “Hey!"</p><p>It impacts the cuirass with a clang and he pivots sharply on his heel dominant hand poised to draw when he spots you. The hand relaxes, but the rest of his body stays alert.</p><p>“Buckethead!” </p><p>Conversations die halfway out of peoples’ mouths because the insane girl threw a rock at the Mandalorian. There’s a hushed gasp, but you only have eyes and ears for Mando. He still hasn’t moved, but he could. Your finger twitches. You know what you look like; face drawn, trousers hiked to stay up, and furious. <em>Good</em>, you think. Describing the hurt in your chest would be like teaching a Jawa a fair trade - impossible and unwanted. You stride toward him taking enormous steps and nearly tripping. Your mouth opens  to scream a fertile batch of obscenities and accusations and everything you’ve pent up for four straight months - you’re shocked silent when someone grabs your arm to drag you out of the Mandalorian’s gaze. </p><p>“Stop it, apologize,” Kel says hushed in your ear. Puffs of his breath fan your hair as he tries to scold you. His fingers dig into your bicep as you pull opposite him, trying to get at Mando and have your say. The bastard - he’s tilting his head a degree and it’s infuriating. When you don’t make a move to look contrite he tugs you hard and calls out:</p><p>“It was an accident.”</p><p>“No it wasn’t!” you spit. </p><p>He turns, so he’s facing off the two of you, Kel curling his fingers into your biceps and you, barely contained, ready to plow headfirst into the cuirass concussion be damned. What’s one more hurt anyway? Just something else to lord over him. His boots clink as he walks toward the two of you, and you try again to break free. He’s moving slow, it’s infuriating, four months and he’s moving slow. </p><p>“Just <em>apologize</em>,” Kel tries again. “Is this really worth your life?” <em> Yes, pummeling into Din’s body would be worth the punishment.  </em></p><p>The closer and bigger Mando gets the more your fury grows. </p><p>“I can handle this, farmer.” His voice rumbles down your spine, the first touch of him in months and you hate your body for responding with heat in your cheeks. “Let her come.” </p><p>Kel Trahill is the sweetest man you know; he drags you behind him and tries to barter for your life. “Leave her be-”</p><p>The charge Mando flashes from his belt hits Kel square in the back. You feel the jolt of electricity from his fingertips and catch ozone for a moment before he collapses with a thump.</p><p>You take a step back and gasp. This wasn’t how you expected this to go; the rage transforms into fear. </p><p>“Kel?” you fall to your knees and pick him up by the collar. His pulse is steady and his eye twitches. “What did you do?” you yell at Mando. He’s only a couple steps away, so you stand to do something vicious-</p><p>-and before you can, he bends and scoops you over his shoulder. He holds your legs down with one ironclad arm and carries you away from Kel’s twitching body through the dusty streets of Nevarro. Your world spins side-ways.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Pls let me know if the way I built Sweet Girl's desperation was all right - I was very cognizant while writing it would be a little OOC...then I thought...she's never been in this sitch, so is it really OOC? </p><p>I have an entire backstory written for her that will be revealed as we go - but for now I wanted to see her uncomfortable, and have some discomfort to grow out of. I think she lets her fear of entrapment and being left behind get the better of her, and she isn't sure how to cope entirely. I want this girl to grow up a lot.  </p><p>visit me, I'm friendly and like feedback @generallybrontidefeelings</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>*I re-wrote chapter three.<br/>**If anyone really wants the original version of chapter three accessible, lemme know and I'll post it as a separate work- as an outtake.<br/>***this is unbeta'd. If you find a mistake, lemme know, I'll go in and fix it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mando never even broke his stride - he crouched to scoop you over his shoulder and kept walking.</p>
<p>“Wait - <em> Kel </em>!” you yelled. It earned you a jostle over his pauldron. </p>
<p>“Stop! Kel-<em> Mando </em>!”</p>
<p>"Quiet."</p>
<p>Kel lays flat on his back, fingers twitching as you get further and further away. You drop your neck against the burn of trying to hold yourself up, pushing against the jetpack while tightly holding the edge of Mando’s flak vest. Tell tale signs of nausea at being thrown upside down start to swell in your belly. </p>
<p>You hear gasps and your cheeks burn up with embarrassment as he carries you through the streets, down stairways and side-alleys into the shadows of the lower levels. The temperature drops the further into the city you go. Sunlight barely hits down here and you shiver in the cooling streets. </p>
<p>“Mando, please put me down.” You want to have your fight and say your piece; but right now your stomach is winning, and you feel your jaw slacken. “<em> Please </em>.” You start squirming, clawing against the soft patches of his clothes, the ironclad arm banded over your knees, trying to tell him ‘that’s enough.’</p>
<p>You squeeze your eyes shut tight when he crouches and swings you back to your feet - and props you up against a wall in an alleyway. The back of your head falls into something soft, and you realize he’s protected your head from knocking into the wall. Sparkling purple spots dance in front of your eyes for a moment. Faint yelling reaches your ears - he must have taken you far into the hunkered down city, away from the market square. Blinking open he’s standing in front of you.  </p>
<p>“What do you think you’re doing?” you demand, voice rising. “Carrying me through the streets? Those people must be terrified!” You point an accusing finger up the alley toward where you think the market center is. </p>
<p>“Don’t act like you didn’t incite it,” he says, his voice hard. “I need to talk to you. Now.”</p>
<p>“You son of a-” You punch him between his shoulder and chest plate, and immediately cradle your knuckles to your chest grunting. “I’m mad at you!” You try with the other hand, but he bats it away. </p>
<p>“I <em> gathered </em>.” He enunciates it, like he’s sounding a new word out for you. </p>
<p>He’s different. </p>
<p>You can’t put your finger on it. Maybe it’s how his body appears to cave over you. Or the spear tip catching echoed sunlight. His voice has a tossing undercurrent you can feel in your bones, and it makes you want to walk backwards until you fade into the cement. Something changed, and you only have half a working brain to process through it, when Kel twitching on the gravelly streetway comes back to mind. </p>
<p>“What did you throw at Kel?”</p>
<p>“That farm boy?” He waits for you to nod. “A stun charge.” You huff, annoyed and fuming. </p>
<p>“I have to go check on him,” you say and push past his arm. But he catches you around the bicep so you pivot until your side is rammed up against his. </p>
<p>“Let go of me, Mando,” you say firmly. </p>
<p>“Farm boy can wait. This cannot.”</p>
<p>In retaliation, you kick his shin, but he only grunts. His grip on your arm increases. </p>
<p>“I’m not ready to talk to you,” you say, your voice thickening. “I’m mad and tired, and you just hurt my friend.”</p>
<p>“Your friend will be fine.” He says tersely, refusing to release you. You try peeling his fingers off with your other hand, having forgotten the amount of strength he could exert when he wanted to. The sounds of your breath reverberate off the alleyways sand-softened walls.   </p>
<p>“You were gone <em>months</em>, what is so important that it can’t wait?” </p>
<p>“The kid.”</p>
<p>You stop trying to pry his fingers loose, and look into his mask. The hair on the back of your neck prickles. </p>
<p>“The kid?” </p>
<p>“He was taken by Imperials.”</p>
<p>You stand, mouth ajar, in the cold shadows, not noticing when the wind blows fine grey-blue dust around your boots. </p>
<p>“Listen to me,” he says, and relaxes his grip on your arm. “I know you’re angry with me. But he’s both our responsibility. I need you with me.” </p>
<p>Then he releases you.  </p>
<p>You swallow hard against a lump in the back of your throat. “I’m angry with you. I thought-” your voice breaks. Wetness forms under your eyes. </p>
<p>His hand touches your elbow. “I’m sorry.” </p>
<p>He lets you cry quietly into your hand. The pent up emotions and anxieties find their way out. You muffle them with your palm, and Mando stands by. His hand stays at your elbow, he shifts on his feet closer to you, but otherwise lets you cry. </p>
<p>When your breathing evens out after a few minutes, there are tear tracks drying down your cheeks to the corners of your mouth. One droplet falls off your jaw and a second later the dirt at your feet is a shade darker. Mando speaks. </p>
<p>“I know you’re upset,” he says slowly. “I want to talk. Not fight.” </p>
<p>You nod. You use the heel of your palm to scrape the wetness back toward your ear. </p>
<p>“Truce,” he says. “It’s all I’m asking for.”</p>
<p>You look around the contours of the helm for cues. Anything.   </p>
<p>“You have a lot of explaining to do,” you tell him. The hand on your elbow squeezes. You sniffle.</p>
<p>“I know, sweet girl.” You touch the hand at your elbow and find the soft leather of his fingers. “Truce. For now?”</p>
<p>For the kid you would do anything. You nod your head. Mentally you file away all the things you need to sort with him. Din keeps his word. You should have trusted him before. Your spine straightens out, and your resolve roots in. </p>
<p>“Tell me what happened.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Wait.”</p>
<p>Din had hurried you from the alley to your recessed apartment deep in the city. He’d said you would need a blaster, Boba Fett - <em> “who’s Boba Fett?” “Nevermind” </em> - having nothing to fit your hands. Or just not willing to share. It was unclear. </p>
<p>Din stood in front of you now, in the kitchen, while your fingertips played with the fraying hem of his shirt. </p>
<p>After he’d ushered you inside, he had snagged your wrist before you could gather the firearm, and now he had his belt undone, the flight suit pulled apart where the armor didn't cover. It's the first time you saw the skin of his stomach in the daylight. He had the appearance of a fruit whose skin has been peeled back for it’s pit. </p>
<p>"What am I looking at?" You asked. The edges where he cut the fabric are stretched terribly from being tugged at. </p>
<p>"I had to cut a new blindfold," he states. "I left it here for safekeeping."</p>
<p>Your heartbeat kicks up. Your chest tightens. </p>
<p>"Did you find it?" </p>
<p>You can't believe it. The evidence in your hands. You tug the rest of the shirt from his belt and find the matching cut. About two feet. A long rectangle of black fabric is missing from his soft undershirt. He steps closer to you to diminish the stretch on the fabric. You catch gun oil, grease, sweat, and something sweet. Vanilla and warmth. </p>
<p>"Why?" It's all you can get out. “Why did you need a new one?”</p>
<p>"The other one had bile on it. I tried washing it," he says, trailing off. He reaches for your bicep. You're not sure if it's to soothe himself or you. </p>
<p>"Bile?" You choke out. He sees the tear track down your cheek,  and he lifts a hand to tentatively cup your face. You bring his hand the rest of the way and lean into it. </p>
<p>"I didn't want to ruin another one." You feel shyness blooming in your chest. "I don't have many shirts."</p>
<hr/>
<p>Each time your toes dipped into unconsciousness, your body jerked away. You weren’t sure if it was the unfamiliarity of the ship, or the cold air that flowed over you from the recycler. </p>
<p><em> Slave I </em> wasn’t comfortable. It was utilitarian, antiseptic, and as you were learning, drafty. You pulled the thin blanket around your ears, and wiggled to try and get comfortable on the heavy duty netting Boba Fett called a bunk. </p>
<p>Cara and you made hasty goodbyes to Greef Karga and Mythrol just before the sun dipped below the bank of the oncoming sandstorm. The rusty orb had disappeared, and taken the last bits of warmth with it. The city burns in sharp relief in your mind’s eye, and Karga too, standing beneath the gateway. Whatever paperwork the Marshal needed to set Mando’s plan into motion, Karga would authorize. He hated the Empire. He hated what they had done to his home. He looked wistful at the thought of taking down an Imperial cruiser, but had declared himself too old - gun fights and battles were past his time. But he could nip them where it hurt through administrative channels, and by the twinkle in his eye you knew he would enjoy doing so. </p>
<p>You had hung back to ask if Kel would be all right. He’d patted your shoulder and told you <em> don’t concern yourself with it young lady, help Mando for now. </em> </p>
<p>You rolled onto your back and stared into the netting of the bunk above you. It moved, blanket squishing through the gaps as Dune turned over. Her snores broke the silence in time with the hyperdrive going through its power circulation. She objected loudly when Mando announced you would accompany them; her argument was that unpredictable personnel should not go on dangerous missions. Mando threw out the argument. You would go. Whether the Marshal liked it or not. </p>
<p>Boba Fett was another bounty hunter with something terribly familiar about him. He’d given you a cursory once over before his companion kindly took you by the waist and showed you where to find the bunks and ‘fresher in the top deck. </p>
<p>You groan and give up on sleep. You’re worried about Kel, and the plants. You know you left too early. The seedlings were just budding; you trusted Kel and Mythrol to figure out how to keep up the garden, but you had anticipated being there for every step of the first harvest. Somehow the plants would survive. They would drink up the nutrients in their tendrils, and you would return to find them heavy with fruit. You would. <em> I will </em> , you say over and over again. <em> We will </em> . <em> Me, Din, and the baby will. </em> </p>
<p>You find a memory of him like a well-loved blanket. You can see the planet’s colossal trees with trunks four meters wide; they made the <em>Razor</em> <em> Crest </em>look like a toy. The kid toddled after a pack of young blushing yellow frogs, stalking then pouncing. He’d finally huffed through his nose and sat on the forest floor, letting his ears fall in despondency. You’d scooped him in your arms and held him under his little bum, and with the help of a torn net you’d found stashed deep in the overhead compartment, caught a handful of the blushing amphibians. He barely had enough energy after his meal to run to Mando when he came back with the bounty, and promptly fell asleep on his father’s cool pauldron. You were content to watch your lover cradle his son. So when he gestured for you too, you had run. Din’s arm twined around your ribs where his thumb could tease the underside of your breast. You swallow the memory into your belly. For safekeeping. </p>
<p>Dank ferrik. </p>
<p>You crawl down the ladder and find Mando reading a data pad. The chair beneath him is dwarfed under the spread of his thighs. Once you’re at his elbow, he looks up. You swallow hard to make sure your voice doesn’t shake. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” you tell him. The air blows even worse down here, and your shirt sleeves tremble from the recycler’s pressure. It’s dizzying. "For throwing a rock at you."</p>
<p>You can spelunk in the building blocks of lifeforms, and petition DNA to rearrange itself. You don’t know how to make-up for throwing a rock at him though. His chest rises and falls in a slow, calculated breath. He sets the data pad down, and rests his palms on his knees, still looking at you. </p>
<p>Slowly he tells you: “Don’t ever throw a rock at me again.”  </p>
<p>“I won’t,” you say. He reaches for your hand to tug you closer. Both his hands encircle your wrists. </p>
<p>“Tell me what happened to you.”</p>
<p>You could tell him you haven’t slept properly in a month. The anxiety got the better of you for the first time in years. Or you could tell him how Cara’s questions frightened you; under the mask he had a mouth that pressed praise and promises into your damp skin, and a name. You could tell him an old story from when you were fourteen. Your uncle told you beside the lily pond behind his house that <em> mother and father have decided to stay on Coruscant and won’t be coming home. No, I don’t know if they will visit. They’ll be very busy, darling. They love you very much </em>.</p>
<p>“I panicked,” you say simply. “After I found the blindfold, I spiraled. I felt like you left me behind.” You let your eyes slide past his helmet to somewhere on the hull.</p>
<p>“Look at me,” he says when he catches your eyes glaze. “You would be dead right now if I brought you. Every lead I followed would have put you in danger. The troopers who took the kid would have killed you. The Imps left a crater where the <em> Razor Crest </em> used to be.”  </p>
<p><em> If you’d been inside </em> - you don’t dare finish the thought. A bright flash of yellow bursts in your mind’s eye.  </p>
<p>“Are you mad at me?” you ask him. </p>
<p>He draws himself back a little. When he does his thumbs fall to the center of your palms and press inward. “No.” He pulls you forward until you are standing on the verge of his knees. “I want to hold you.”</p>
<p>Seated on his thighs, he cradles your head in his cowl. Din uses his free hand to rub the spot behind your knee he bruised earlier in the day. His embrace is everything you wanted while clutching the blindfold at night. His undertones are familiar; gun oil, musk, the hot burn of an electric current. Maybe this could have been nicer if you had caught up with him instead of accosting him. Maybe he would have taken you back to your apartment. <em> This could have been sweeter </em>, you realize. </p>
<p>You tuck your nose close to his neck and take a deep breath. </p>
<p>Today, Din had never really been angry with you. Surprised and frustrated - yes, those were the words. His cheeks had twitched up at the challenge you had thrown into his cuirass in the dusty streets. Only someone who knew they wouldn’t leave that encounter in pieces would try that stunt. You were fearless and idiotic, and absolutely sure of where you stood. You had been downright timid after the mugging - he’s glad you found your fearlessness again. Even if it’s directed at him. </p>
<p>Din decides this is one of the few times in his life he’s grateful for the helmet. </p>
<p>Wetness pooled in his eyes. When he blinked it fell down his cheeks into his three day scruff. It was the first time in days he allowed his mind to rest. Shaving, showering, holding the child - all the palette cleaners he relished were so far out of reach. Fractionated pictures of what his life could be just out of the corner of his eyes. </p>
<p>He catches her warm woody smell, mixed with light citron. Through the helmet's filters he finds you. He’d told you once there were no promises, but the moment you tucked your nose into his neck, he would have promised you the constellations over Mandalore. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. Thank everyone who left feedback on this first version of this chapter. I strongly disliked how I ended it, and had a super difficult time writing anything afterward, so I made an executive decision to write myself out of the hole I dug myself into. I think this works better, and I think the behaviors are a little more in line with how I've been writing the characters. </p>
<p>2. As always let me know what you think, I love hearing from everyone. It helps me as a newish writer get my bearings!</p>
<p>3. In my head canons for Sweet Girl her parents are both starfighter pilots. According to Wookiepiedia, Pamarthe has a complicated history with the Empire which led me to their brief part in this story, which has had long lasting effects. </p>
<p>4. See this link to picture the top deck of Slave I https://screenrant.com/mandalorian-attack-clones-boba-fett-slave-1-design-different/</p>
<p>on tumblr @generallybrontidefeelings</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>on tumblr @generallybrontidefeelings</p></blockquote></div></div>
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